Turning Point
by MercyMagnum
Summary: Stephanie McMahon wants something she shouldn't. OneShot Taker/Stephanie


~Random vingette that popped into my head ~ OneShot - Taker/Stephanie

"How many more times, Stephanie?"

He sounds like a parent scolding a child for the hundredth time, tired and disappointed.

I glare over at him, his long hair pushed away from his face, still damp from an earlier shower. I can't look at him for very long.

It hurts, hurts that Taker is disappointed in me. Hurts more than I want it to or I think it should. So how do I respond? Like the child he obviously thinks I am.

"What the fuck is your problem Mark?"

Smart going.

I'd fought with Paul again. We've made so many new starts, and keep fucking it up. It was bad this time. The hotel is pressing charges for the damage.

It was stupid, started over nothing. A nothing I can't even recall.

Everyone thinks its Paul. The reason we can't get it together. I let them think that.

Because the real reason is standing in front of me.

I sometimes wonder if Paul knows. He just can't bear to admit it.

I'm practically family to Taker, a friend – one of the few that he actually allows in – that he actually trusts.

And I am completely in lust with him. For years it's been building, simmering within me. I call it lust because I don't dare call it love. For the sake of my sanity.

"I said what the hell is your problem!" I yell it again, and it sounds so inane in my own ears.

I get blinked at, then a small quirk of his lips and a shake of his head, neck muscles moving under his pale skin. He walks over to me, looking down at me with those odd intense green eyes. Really looks at me. All I can see is friendship and understanding.

God help me that's not what I want.

I want him, see. That's the problem. In a way that burns a hole into my soul and makes me ache during waking hours, fills my dreams at night. Everything about the man moves me. His humor - wry and not heard by many. His gruff demeanor that hides a heart as big as the state he comes from, the way his coarse features meld into a surprising beauty the more you look at him. The smattering of freckles on his big, long fingered hands.

It's only when I feel the couch next to me move that I realize just how wrapped up in my own head I'm being. The couch sags under his big frame as he settles next to me.

"You wanna tell me Stephanie?"

The question is asked softly, his deep voice lilting- making me shudder inside.

I've told Taker many things over the years. Things that other's would have judged me for or been unable to handle. He always listens and has something to say that helps me.

But how could I tell him this?

"You don't understand." I finally blurt out, regretting it as it leaves my lips.  
Sighing he leans back onto the cushions, I don't trust myself to say anything else as his huge arm curls lazily round the back of the sofa. The way his skin looks is distracting, the ink swirling over his flesh.

So close, so damn close. I can smell the steam from the shower, almost taste his scent.

"I think I do." He mutters.

I stop breathing.

"No you don't." I grind out, just to protect myself.

There's this sound that comes from him, you can't say Taker grunts, more like a growl.

I have to look at him. I can't do otherwise. Ready to hurl more biting words.

It's a mistake because he's looking at me.

Whatever I was about to say dies completely in my throat as fingers brush against the base of my skull.

"You cut it." I can feel his strong hand sliding through the recently cut strands of my hair, brushing the skin of my neck.

And it's all right there. Right it those few words. In the look in his eyes that are suddenly transparent and filled with longing. He's wanted me all along. Struggled like I have. With the guilt. The lying to ourselves.

His lips are parted slightly, the sculpted shape of them draws my eyes as my own breath quickens.

I've never known exactly what it is about him, he undoes me.

Then for a moment the world spins before settling with me on my back under him. The breath is caught in my throat. That hair, like gold laced flames, is brushing across my skin as he pushes clothes out the way to get to what he wants.

Which is me apparently.

Would this be me complaining? No fucking way. All I can feel is centered round what he's doing to me.

Long, strong, fingers seeking out and finding those spots that make my breath hitch, my skin sing, make me forget that I can do more than moan.

Teeth find my hip, as he struggles with my pants that are one size too tight really.

I'm arching against him. Demanding more. Begging silently. Neither of us thinking or speaking, just feeling.

Hot breath and the brush of his goatee against my clit has me biting back a scream, shuddering violently as I fight for what little control I have left. Huge hands spanning my waist, moving me up. He's nearly growling now, muttering things against my skin, voice harsher and hotter, deeper, needing. I could come from just hearing him like that.

Suddenly I'm cold and bereft for a few moments as he sits back on his haunches, yanking the shirt from his body. Oh his body, everything about him is strong and broad, the muscles curling and bunching as he divests himself and me of the rest of our clothing.

Then he's above me again. Hair curtaining down around his face, brushing my breasts, it's replaced by his mouth, tugging and teasing. The big muscles of his stomach press against my clit. I'm writhing.

A nip beneath my ear and heat builds. Sending reality away with her tail between her legs.

A big leg momentarily between my thighs as he moves down. His mouth on my sex, I'm arching and shaking.

Fingers follow, the other hand gently stroking my stomach making sure I'm all right.

He raises up, and thrusts into me, hard. My mouth opens in a silent scream, the pleasure is nearly pain. Nothing else is important.

He moves and everything falls apart. I break over and over; the pieces are never going to fit together the same again. It seems to go on forever, I can hardly breathe.

His heat brands me, hands and teeth marking, laying a claim that I so want him to take up, words muffled against my shoulder. He moves again. The pleasure shoots back through me, building again even more intense. He's like an animal, deep and hard. My own moans sound far off because of the pounding in my head. My body shakes and explodes. I clutch his huge arms, trying not to pass out. He lifts me up, pulling me against his chest, and collapses on his back, my head resting on his heart. The pounding of it thunderous in my ear.

After a moment I raise my head. Needing to look at him.

His head is thrown back against the couch, strong neck exposed, lips parted, breath coming in shaky gasps. His hair sticking to his glistening shoulders.

I feel like crying.

I reach up and kiss his neck, lips trailing lightly. He moans quietly, pale brows knitting together over closed eyes. My lips meet his for the first time, barely touching, then nipping the top and the bottom one, relishing the feel of him, his intake of breath, the way he almost shudders under my touch.

He's still buried in me. I can feel the size of him, the throb in my flesh.

Need is in me again, a jolt of desire in my stomach.

Who knows what will happen later.

But right now, it's just he and I, and that's all there is.


End file.
